My mum died yesterday.
I hadn't seen her in 8 years or spoken to her in 6. I still sent birthday and Christmas messages, an unbreakable habit, proof of life if nothing else. I had already grieved the relationship we never had during the covid lockdown as the silence from her built up, the loss of hope. I also embraced the relief I felt at no longer being caught up in her abuse, destruction and revenge, I served no further purpose, it was like finally coming up for air. I was also under no illusion that her rejection and my cautious acceptance of it would be the end of the emotional line. I had therapy but knew it was just a sticking plaster.
For many years I was the only one in her corner in a high conflict disfunctional family. Parentified, co-dependent, trauma-bonded, terrified, call it what you will. She was never a mum, not in the traditional sense of the word or in her own words or actions, but she was still the only mum I knew. She never really knew me at all.
She didn't die alone, I'm clinging to that like a fucking life raft.
I am lost.